


Berrypicking Time

by swampdiamonds



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:42:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1565066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swampdiamonds/pseuds/swampdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Finduilas lives. She and Níniel recover together in Brethil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Berrypicking Time

**Author's Note:**

> A late entry for [Legendarium Ladies April](http://legendariumladiesapril.tumblr.com/). Thank you to croclock for taking a look at it!
> 
> Update: croclock has done [a beautiful illustration](http://swampdiamonds.tumblr.com/post/87852775441/croclock-for-swampdiamondss-beautiful-lla) for this story! (link nsfw, mild nudity)

“I shall go berrypicking tomorrow,” Finduilas told Brandir when he came to check on her. He opened his mouth, but she cut him off before he could object. “Níniel will come with me.”

The log walls of the lodge, reassuringly solid through the long, delirious winter, had grown oppressively so as her strength returned. She was ambulatory now, tottering around the stockade like a fawn, but she tired quickly, and Brandir well knew it. But Níniel was tall, and was growing hale since those first days when her sickbed was laid next to Finduilas’.

Brandir gave her an appraising look. She looked back, taking pains to keep her back straight and her chin high. “Go,” he said, “both of you. Only stay on the paths and mind you don’t tire yourselves overmuch.”

* * *

 

Would Níniel like to go pick berries tomorrow? Berries. _Fruit_. To eat, yes. “Oh!” Níniel exclaimed, the frustration clearing from her face. “The small circles on the branch! Yes, I want to go!”

* * *

 

They walked downhill to where Finduilas had been told the best picking lay. The sun had not yet topped the ridge to their East, and it was too cool yet for the swarms of midges and deerflies that plagued the woods this time of year. It was exhilarating to be walking outside the stockade walls on such a morning; it was exhilarating that such a morning could exist here, now, after everything. The perfection of it all made her feel giddy.

There were other women from the settlement scattered among the trees, filling baskets and satchels. They ignored the pair after an initial greeting, going back to soft conversations of their own. No one knew quite what to make of the frail elf-maid in their midst, so they mostly settled for ignoring her. Níniel’s presence was no less inexplicable. But she was mortal, and perhaps that made folk easier around her.

She remembered, as she sometimes did, that the border of Doriath was but a few days’ march away. She could go there, go to her kinsman Elu Thingol; perhaps there were even some who were free and living yet—? But she could not bear it, not yet. She would stay just a little while longer, here, with Níniel.

* * *

 

Finduilas found a likely-looking spot where the bushes grew thick. “Berries!” Níniel crowed in delight. “These are berries! But what kind are they?”

“They call them whortleberries here,” said Finduilas, popping one in her mouth.

Níniel looked thoughtful. “But…you don’t call them that?”

“I call them blueberries,” said Finduilas, “but it doesn’t matter. They taste the same.”

Finduilas found a dry patch of earth to sit on and commenced picking. The short walk had tired her. Her legs ached with the unaccustomed exertion, but it was worth it to be here. She felt satisfied with herself for having made and executed such an excellent plan.

The feeling of success emboldened her, and other plans began to coalesce. “Níniel,” she called, “should you like me to teach you embroidery?”

Níniel straightened from where she had stooped to fill her basket. The sun was peeking over the ridge now, and its rays caught her face and hair, illuminating stray flyaways into a crown. “Embroidery,” she repeated, rolling the word around her mouth. “The wise-women are teaching me stitching.”

They were: Níniel had watched them at their mending and fancywork, forever asking, “what is that,” and “why,” and “how,” until they gave her a needle and set her to mending a work-shirt. She had taken to it quickly, her fingers memorizing steps in a way that suggested to Finduilas that she had known them once, before her darkness.

“What I have in mind is more elaborate,” said Finduilas, already thinking how she might lay her hands on some suitable floss and a frame. Perhaps one could be made? She resolved to ask Brandir.

“Did you learn it in the Elf-City where you came from?” asked Níniel.

Finduilas started at that. Someone must have told her. “A long time ago,” she said, after a pause. “My mother taught me.”

By the look on her face it had never occurred to Níniel that Finduilas might have a mother.

“I had a mother the same as you, Níniel,” she said. “You must have had one once, too, you know.”

Niniel’s face darkened as she considered this. “Where is your mother?” she asked.

“Gone,” said Finduilas.

Níniel nodded. This, she understood.

* * *

 

It was warm now under the mid-morning sun, and the stitch in her side was growing from the ache of unused muscles into something sharper, stabbing deeper with every step.

_“Take it out, take it out, take it out” she heard someone begging. The room was dark and smelt of blood and any moment they would come and clasp her back in irons…_

_…”Hush now,” said a voice from somewhere above her, “we took it out three days ago.”_

A bead of sweat worked its way down her temple. It went against all reason, she knew. But she could feel the spearpoint worming its way back into her side. She wondered fleetingly if this was how it had been for Gwindor when his arm troubled him. She pushed the thought away. He was dead, they were all dead, and she was alive and walking beneath the trees.

She carried on up the hill, focusing intently on Níniel: the fall of her feet, her arm swinging the berry-basket, her braid bouncing between her shoulderblades. One, two. One, two.

The trees were thinner here; the ground more rock than soil as the path wound upward toward the gate. She could see the stockade walls now at the top of the hill. Abruptly, it was all too much. She sat down, a stone’s throw from the stout log walls, unable to take another step. Or unwilling, maybe; her body betraying her secret mind. The berries tumbled out of the basket and down the hill. Her face felt hot.

Níniel swam into view, golden and wavering. She touched Finduilas’ cheek. “ _I’m_ the Tear-maid,” she said.

It was meant to make her smile, but it was also true. It was the only name she had.

“I’m sorry,” said Finduilas, “I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

She felt Níniel’s hands under her arms, hoisting her upright. She did her best to help, to bear her own weight, but her legs spasmed and buckled beneath her. Somehow, with a great deal of fumbling, she found herself supported on Níniel’s back like a child. She buried her face in the crook of Níniel’s neck and breathed deep.

* * *

 

“No, no, no! For _her_ , for the, for the, I lost the word—.”

Finduilas could hear Níniel arguing with the women outside. Light shone in between the logs through cracks in the daubing. She closed her eyes and focused on the afterimage, the scattered pinpricks of light blurring and fading. From beyond the door, Níniel made a noise of frustration. “Yes, I know, but she _needs_ it! For the place where she remembers pain!”

It was an absurd luxury, a bath in this heat, at this time of day. Once she had lived in a place where the water ran over the rocks, and under them, and through them, and was piped steaming hot to a little room off her bedchamber.  Now she watched as a pair of gangling boys she recognized as the grandsons of one of the wise-women brought in a wooden basin and laid it by the hearth-fire. They went out and came back in again, each with a bucketful of water. They went to and fro like this until the basin was full and then returned with a wide-mouthed clay pitcher, three large, smooth stones, and their grandmother.

They set the pitcher next to the basin, laid the stones directly in the fire, and departed. Their grandmother came and bent down to scrutinize Finduilas.

“Your side hurts,” she said.

Finduilas nodded carefully.  The spearpoint throbbed, but if she stayed very still it would not go any deeper.

“When it happened before Brandir said—,” said Níniel.

“Child, I taught Brandir,” said the wise-woman. “I know what he said.”

She pulled a little packet from the wallet at her side, handing it to Níniel. “You know what to do with this, yes?”

Níniel nodded solemnly.

“Good,” she said, “because I don’t have time to be drawing baths for elf-princesses, nor nobody else. The hot water should help with the side-ache, and as for the rest, well, it won’t do any harm.”

She straightened and turned toward the door. “Mind you don’t scald yourselves,” she said, before disappearing into the light.

The lodge was dim and silent now, and empty except for Finduilas and Níniel. The day’s activities carried on outside.

Níniel got up to examine the tub by the fire. “I know what to do,” she said. “When the stones are hot I put them in the water with this.”

She opened the packet and gave it a cautious sniff. “It smells nice,” she said.

Finduilas curled up miserably on the bedroll.

* * *

 

She woke sweaty and confused. There was a splash and a great hissing; she looked up to see Níniel shrouded in steam as she dropped the last stone into the tub. She set the tongs aside, then dipped a finger in the water to test it.

“Too hot,” she said, coming over to sit by Finduilas.

Níniel was red-faced from the steam and covered in a fine sheen of sweat. She wiped her forearm across her brow and then leaned back to lie next to Finduilas.  She was breathing heavily, as she had been on the walk up the hill. _Still weak_ , Finduilas thought. _Still weak, and she carried me all the way home. And I let her_.

The spearpoint was gone for now, but she did not feel much inclined to move. Níniel brushed a finger across her cheek and got to her feet with a groan. “I should put the herbs in before it cools. Shall I help you?”

“I don’t know,” said Finduilas, squeezing her eyes shut.

Niniel opened the packet and poured it in the bathwater. A bright, fragrant scent filled the room. 

“What is its name?” asked Níniel, helping Finduilas out of her dress.

Finduilas slipped into the bathwater, Niniel at her elbow. A few tendrils of steam rose from the surface before diffusing in the light from the smokehole.

“I don’t know,” she said.

Níniel went to fetch the pitcher. “I will ask someone else, then.”

The water was painfully hot, hardly bearable. “Not everything has a name, Níniel,” Finduilas snapped.

“No.” Níniel’s voice came from behind her. “You don’t know everything. I will ask someone else, and if they don’t know, I will make a name for it myself.”

Finduilas let herself sink into the bathwater.

It had been a wretched, foolish plan, and now it was all ruined. Why had she ever thought of it? She saw the blueberries tumbling down the rocks and choked on a sob.

Once she had begun it was impossible to stop. She sensed Níniel hovering nearby and tried to explain. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice sounding querulous and pathetic in her ears, “I don’t know why I’m crying.”

* * *

 

Her eyes itched. It felt like hours had passed, but the water was still warm.

A presence loomed over her: Níniel, with a rag, wiping the tears and mucus from her face as one would a child’s. She set the cloth on the lip of the tub and surveyed her work, biting her lip the way she did when she was searching for a word.

Níniel, biting her lip. Níniel, golden in the sunlight.

Níniel, stroking her cheek and carrying her to safety.

Finduilas leaned forward and kissed her.A moment stretched to an age as she thought, _what have I done?_

Hadn’t she learned by now? There had been other moments, in the place she had once lived, other kisses, and it always came to nothing.

But Níniel kissed her back.

* * *

 

Her side ached, her legs ached, but she felt something untangle in her gut. She leaned back into Níniel’s arms, letting her head rest against Níniel’s collarbone. Níniel brushed a damp lock from Finduilas’ temple.

“We need to find the name for this,” said Níniel.

“Do we?”

“Yes.”

Finduilas took a deep breath. This was a temporary respite; she was not done crying yet.

“We will look for it together,” she said.


End file.
